Clair de Lune
by Wordsmith8
Summary: A simultaneous mockery of both the heavens and his master; That butler, playing piano.


**A/N: ~Kurooo is not miiiiine~**

The Phantomhive manor, like most manors in the area, occupies a large expanse of countryside far from the reaches of the charcoal-swathed city of London. Also like many other aristocratic homes, its grounds and interior are unparalleled in their beauty and are just as grand as the tremendous (and unnecessary) chunk of land on which it insists on existing in all its prideful glory. Because of the sheer enormity of the place, communicating across large areas, both inside and out, is incredibly taxing and nearly impossible. If one were to call to someone from one end of the gardens to the other, the wind sweeping low over the fields would come rushing in and steal the very breath from one's lips before the sound could even leave one's mouth. Even inside the home, what with its vaulted ceilings and wide rooms, sound dissipates into the stagnant air with not a soul to hear.

It is a wonder, then, that the first wistful tones of _Clair de Lune_ echo sorrowfully up the stairs from the music room and come to rest comfortably in the ear of the little lord.

The quill, poised gracefully in the delicate fingers of the boy, halts its methodical path across the page as the music begins its gentle crescendo, each note played with utmost grace and care by practiced hands. Even through the door of the study, the emotion behind the chords is perfectly audible and fully captures the essence of a placid moonlit night.

The tender flow of notes is the sweet breeze that carries the intoxicating scent of lilac, the melancholy chime of the upper-register is the light of each burning star as it fizzles out into the abyss of night. Harmonies capture the subtle hum of the whispering trees and when the music threatens to disappear altogether, it is the resplendent moon lending her glow while the sun is at rest.

The boy lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding.

Beneath him in the music room, Ciel can imagine exactly who it is sitting at the unused instrument. His eye closes, and a slight smirk appears on his lips as the irony of the situation hits him.

For how could a _demon_ , a creature of _hell_ coax such glorious sounds from the piano?

How dare he be so bold as to mimic the angels in their song, how dare he mock them by playing music so pure and innocent with such sinful hands that have no doubt brought about the end of many beings, human and otherwise. Is it not simply disgraceful that the melody he has spun so artfully about him rivals the beauty of the song of heaven itself?

How perfectly _blasphemous._

The boy's smirk only grows wider as the music progresses, the soaring apex of the piece searing its way through space. He knows he has no time for games, and yet Ciel's body seems to force him to his feet and towards the door.

Each mechanical step brings him closer to the source of the music, closer towards the devil, debonair. Ciel spies the door to the music room and notices that it has been deliberately left ajar, for had it not been intended for his opening, it would have been firmly shut.

The smirk returns to his lips.

Gently pushing open the door, the boy is greeted with an empty room.

The mellifluous piece still flows through the air, but a change in quality is undoubtedly detectable. A sharp graininess now clings to the sweet melody, a tone that is both surprising and disappointing.

Ciel's once smirking lips twitch downward as he catches sight of the gramophone tucked neatly by the door, a record of Claude Debussy's _Clair de Lune_ spinning merrily under the needle.

"My lord"

The boy glances over his shoulder to see his butler standing at the door with the teacart laden with his afternoon snack.

He frowns slightly.

"I wasn't aware we had purchased a gramophone"

"I took the liberty of acquiring one. They seem to be growing in popularity"

"…I see"

Ciel's eyes avert themselves from his butler's amused gaze and rest on his ungloved hands resting on the handle of the cart.

"I see you've decided to neglect your gloves"

"Certainly not, my lord. They were soiled due to a mess Finnian made in the kitchen. I intend on donning a fresh pair as soon as Maylene has finished the wash"

"…"

"Fine, then what are you waiting for? Bring the tea to my office"

"Yes, my lord"

Ignoring the disappointment at having been wrong, the Earl turned away from the music room and shut the door, leaving a pair of white gloves lying on the askew piano bench in his wake.

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 **A/N: Hi friends. It's late. My. Brain. Wat. I've been meaning to update 'The sky is born anew'(It's gonna get done, I pinky promise) but I got sidetracked and started listening to Claude Debussy's 'Clair de Lune' (As is stated in this fic). I started writing with good intentions, and then this happened. Thank you to all of you that have put up with my chaotic update schedule and continue to read my majestical brain creations! Hope you enjoyed, as always feel free to leave your thoughts in a review, Thank you!**

 **Wordsmith8**


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